


Love You Too, N.

by Captain_Assbut_at_221B



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cute, Dean likes to kill people, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, YAY DEATH, but destiel serial killers, castiel also likes to kill people, castiel is a serial killer, dean is a serial killer, gory though, killer notes, kinda gross actually, psychopathic dean winchester, serial killer au, super cute but a lot of killing, there is no hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 08:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20963726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Assbut_at_221B/pseuds/Captain_Assbut_at_221B
Summary: Dean Winchester is a serial killer. He doesnt want any other life. He loves it. But he doesnt like competiton.Castiel Novak is also a serial killer. An up and coming one. The WINCHESTER killer was only fabled, what happens when he challenges him to a competition?A small fic about killing people and falling in love.





	Love You Too, N.

There was only one thing that drove Dean Winchester. It wasn’t fame, like people thought. It wasn’t a sense of duty, like the sympathizers thought. It wasn’t a bloodthirsty desire like the press and cops thought. No. There was only one thing that drove the serial killer Dean Winchester. 

The fight. 

There was something about the gun in his hand, something about the crunch of flesh under his knuckles, something in the power he held. Something so addicting. There was something to be said about the blood on his hands. Such a thick crimson stain that nothing could wash it away. It made him feel good. Sick, but good. He threw up after every kill, but even the acid burning up his throat made him feel good. He wondered what Sammy would say about him now. His baby brother had done his part. The demon that killed their mother was gone. Dean had killed that monster. But it wasn’t one of the black eyed demons that his father had been haunted by. It was a person. And that’s what gave Dean the taste. Sam had been there for his first kill. They had hunted the man down; found him in a hovel out in the salt flats. Sam had wanted it to be quick. But Dean wanted him to suffer. They had fought over it, but Dean won out. He always won. But that side of Dean—the side that dug his fingers into bullet wounds and licked the blood off his hands—that was a side Sam couldn’t bear to see. But he was his brother. So one blood sticky embrace and they parted. Sam to law school. Sam to usual life. Sam to a dog and a girl and a kid on the way. And Dean to the fight. Dean to the death. Dean to the killing trade. The fight called him like a siren’s song. And he followed it.

There was only one thing that drove Castiel Novak. It wasn’t the PTSD, like the people thought. It wasn’t the hell he had lived in, like the sympathizers thought. It wasn’t the power, like the press and cops thought. No. There was only one thing that drove the kill-crazed serial killer Castiel Novak. 

The fight.

There was something about the smear of blood on his trench coat. There was something about the struggle, something about the power of having life in his hands. Something about watching it flicker out. There was something to be said about the scarlet stain on his hands. So thick and deep that nothing could wash it away. It made him feel good. The taste made him feel good. The feeling of life slipping away was almost orgasmic. He couldn’t get enough. Gabriel had gone on. They had started in this as a family. Him, Gabriel, and Luci. They killed unabashedly; it was how he grew up. But then Luci got killed, and Gabriel washed his hands clean and went to work for the press. So it was just Castiel now. Just Castiel that took his victims and tied them up. Just Castiel that carved into their flesh. Just Castiel that took their blood and smeared it across his face like a war paint. Just Castiel that the fight called. And just Castiel that followed it. 

Dean didn’t like competition. Ever since he became known as the killer that had chopped that Salt Flats man into seventeen pieces and spread him across the lawn like a display—using them to spell the word WINCHESTER—he had been the most notorious killer known. People were sick to talk about him. They talked to Sam, who played his part beautifully, weeping uncontrollably when told about his brother. He still made contact from time to time, in the stagnant space between kills, making sure Dean was still alive. But it was always through a shady type of person. In an alley, in the dark, whispering words of comfort from Sam. Now, the press usually left Sammy alone. Whenever another kill came, another WINCHESTER spelled out on the ground, there would be shots of him, stiff faced and tired eyed in the door of his home. But otherwise, Dean’s killing didn’t affect him anymore. So nothing held him back. Dean didn’t like competition though. So when a new killer emerged, a so called Castiel Novak, Dean wasn’t happy. 

Castiel was colder than you would think. The way he killed his victims, the way he sang them lullabies as he cut off bits and pieces that stuck out, the way he danced past video cameras, displaying his blood painted face, people thought he was some kind of Joker type. But no. Castiel Novak was cold. And he didn’t like competition. The WINCHESTER killer, who used the parts of his victims to spell his own name, was good. Very good. He was never caught on camera, and there were never any witnesses. Though every person worth their salt knew what car he drove—a 1967 Impala—nobody seemed to see it anywhere. The only person that Castiel suspected knew anything was Dean’s brother Sam. He was sure that Sam knew something he wasn’t telling. But he didn’t care. Dean’s kills just got gorier and more sadistic the more that Castiel’s did. If he wanted a competition, fine. 

The Novak killer started upping his game. He didn’t lose his childlike aesthetic, with his bloody handprint on every victim he killed, but he started leaving messages on the bodies. They weren’t for the press or the police, or even for his brother Gabriel. He was leaving messages for the WINCHESTER killer. At first, they were hard to understand. He was lyrical and flowing, like a riddle. They were there to tease him. There to edge him on. There to prove who was truly the most sadistic one. 

One more kill, one more fatality, if you think you're better, you can come stop me. I challenge you. N.

They were always signed with a bloody handprint. At first, the WINCHESTER killer ignored it. But then as the Novak killer continued to leave notes challenging him, some appeared on his too. Signed with a W written in vomit. His were a little easier to understand. There was no riddling here. 

Fight me, bitch. It’s on. W.

The police were terrified. This was a killing competition. The WINCHESTER kills spiked, and the Novak kills did too. They got gorier and gorier. One Novak kill had a necklace of human teeth around his neck. One WINCHESTER death was spelled entirely in eyeballs. The police that saw the scenes learned to carry vomit bags with them. The press hounded Sam and Gabriel, until there was subpoena issued forbidding the press to talk to them. But the killing just continued, and each death was signed with a note. 

Take this, bitch. W.

Not your best, you can do better. Keep on trying, and maybe, one day, you can be a real killer. N.

Fuck you Novak. I've been at this longer than you. You're a fucking rookie. W.

This girl was blonde. Reminded me of you. I shaved her bald. With a machete. Like I would do for you. N.

This one reminded me of you Novak, ugly as fuck. W.

Saw this one in a liquor store, reminded me of your drinking problems. I cut out his liver. There's a picture attached. You should really quit drinking. N.

You aren’t my mom, Novak. So fuck you again. W.

You're right. Your mom is dead right? N.

You're going to be dead next, Novak. W.

This one had green eyes. I stabbed them out with a fork. Just like your eyes incidentally. By the way, how’s Sam? N.

Big mistake blue eyed boy, you're next. W.

Bring it. N.

The police tried desperately to keep up with the fighting. The killing and the notes. But nothing could be done. And then the name Sam was mentioned, and it seemed like their job might be taken care of for them. If these two threats would obliterate each other, their job would be over with. They held their breath and waited.

Under the cover of darkness, Dean Winchester and Castiel Novak arranged to meet. Dean was there first. He rolled his shoulders and gripped his knife. And from the darkness of the alley, a man emerged. He was missing the blood on his face, but his trench coat was covered in bloody handprints. His face was the first thing Dean saw. Shocking blue eyes, soft lines, and a stubbled chin. Dean’s heart caught in his throat. This wasn’t just the Novak Killer. This was someone he knew. 

Castiel saw Dean for the first time his heart stopped a little. This wasn’t just the WINCHESTER killer. This person with those emerald green eyes, and those bowed lips, this was someone he knew. This was Dean. The Dean Winchester. The one he knew in high school. This was the bad boy who had pushed the preppy Castiel up against the bleachers and stolen his virginity from him. This was the boy he was going to run away with, before Luci picked up the killing again and took Castiel with. This was Dean Fucking Winchester, with the crazy as fuck father and the monstrous, moose of a brother. This wasn’t just the WINCHESTER killer. This was Dean.

Dean knew the second he saw him. This was Cass. The boy he had fucked with abandon, the one who he let fuck him. The one who kissed him like there was no tomorrow. The one with the odd older brothers. The one who wept over the blood on his hands. This was the boy that Dean had asked to marry him, the one who had tasted Dean’s bloody lips and kissed back. This was the boy that was going to run away with him before he left. The only one Dean had ever loved. And he dropped his knife with a clatter. 

“Cass?”

“Dean?”  
In the dark of the alley the bloodstained hands of two serial killers met. Their bloodstained lips touched. And they remembered.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Dean’s lips traced paths across Castiel’s. 

“I thought I would never see you again.”

Cass smiled and bit Dean’s lip softly. He murmured into his mouth as his hand slipped down, down, down to below the waistband of Dean’s jeans.

“I missed you too.”

And he laid him bare.

Even now, the Novak and WINCHESTER killers still leave each other notes. On every kill no matter how gory or how mundane, there is a paper. Often pinned to the body with care if it is a Novak kill, usually tossed on nonchalantly if it’s a WINCHESTER kill. But they say something new now. 

This one was for you, my angel. W.

There is no other kill that could compare to yours, but I offer mine. N.

This one tasted like you. Made me miss you more. W.

I could never compare. But I can try. N.

The police were horrified. Instead of killing each other, they had fallen for each other. Whenever cameras caught them they were kissing. Often now, they killed together. Whenever the WINCHESTER killer was spotted, there was always a bloody handprint on his shoulder. Novak had marked him as his own. Whenever the Novak killer was seen, he was wearing something that belonged to the WINCHESTER killer. Like he had rolled out of bed with him and borrowed his Black Sabbath t-shirt to go do some murdering. They had leaked a fucking sex tape for god’s sake. It had over a million views on RedTube. The only thing worse than two killers in a war was two killers in love. After some time, the notes toned down. For a while there, they were sexting over kills. But now, when you find a note on a WINCHESTER kill it simply says

I love you Novak. W.

And on a Novak kill, there is the same scratchy bloody handprint, and the words:

I love you too. N.

Sam and Gabriel refuse to comment.


End file.
